


The Quiet Lion

by midnight5776



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comfort/Angst, Draco is a spoiled rich kid, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Good Draco Malfoy, Graduate School, Hermione Granger Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Hermione is running from her past, Implied/Referenced Abuse, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Hermione Granger, Past Abuse, Past Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Ron Weasley Bashing, Slow Burn, Stanford University
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-01-25 16:11:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18577972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnight5776/pseuds/midnight5776
Summary: Hermione could still feel the lingering disappointment from her phone call with her parents as she unpacked her suitcase in her new home. Home was a rather loose term, in her opinion, for the tiny apartment she was renting out near the University. Stanford had been a great decision for a series of reasons, the top one being that she was now over 3,000 miles away from her parents. It helped that it had an amazing comparative literature graduate program, but that wasn’t even the most important point to Hermione anymore.She was just happy to be as far away from him as possible. It took her moving across the entire country to feel some shred of safety once again.





	1. 3,119 Miles Away

**Author's Note:**

> Harry Potter and it's characters are obviously not mine, but someone should probably take them away from JKR before she does something else with them.
> 
> I'll be updating tags as the story goes! I currently have a handful of chapters written and the tags reflect what I know will be happening as of now!

Hermione could still feel the lingering disappointment from her phone call with her parents as she unpacked her suitcase in her new home. Home was a rather loose term, in her opinion, for the tiny apartment she was renting out near the University. Stanford had been a great decision for a series of reasons, the top one being that she was now over 3,000 miles away from her parents. It helped that it had an amazing comparative literature graduate program, but that wasn’t even the most important point to Hermione anymore.

She was just happy to be as far away from _him_ as possible. It took her moving across the entire country to feel some shred of safety once again.

With a sigh, Hermione took the last article of clothing out of her suitcase and put it in her beat up dresser. The old thing was a decent thrift store find, as was all the furniture in her small studio apartment. Stanford was an expensive area to live in; all of her scholarship money was going to go to keeping her afloat. Worst case scenario, she knew she could call her parents, but this was supposed to be proof she could live on her own, without them, without him. She could handle this.

After a sad meal of Cup of Noodle, Hermione spent her evening reading the assigned pages that would be covered tomorrow in her Gothic Lit class. It was easier to enjoy horror when you weren’t living in a thriller movie anymore.

\--

The walk from Hermione’s studio to campus took less than half an hour; she found it pleasant. She could’ve taken the campus shuttle and gotten there in a quarter of the time, but California weather was so different from Rhode Island. The September air was warm, a breeze carrying the chatter of university students through the streets. Hermione found it refreshing to be able to enjoy walking by herself again. There was no need to constantly look over her shoulder (not that she could shake that habit yet) and she knew that the sound of snapping twigs in bushes were squirrels, not a man waiting to leap. She knew it would take ages to convince her subconscious of that, but it still felt freeing to know that--even though she did startle and jump--she would be safe.

Hermione made her way to the lecture hall where her only class for the day would be held. Gothic Literature was a graduate class taught by Severus Snape. Hermione had heard he was a hard ass, took amusement in humiliating students, and had never once been happy in his life. All of that didn’t change the fact that he was the sole best researcher on said genre. Sitting in a lecture of Professor Snape was an honor and Hermione knew it. Even if he did humiliate students, no one ever filed a complaint. It was better to be humiliated and shamed by a genius than coddled by someone who wasn’t world famous for his understanding of Gothic Literature.

It was easy to say Hermione was both excited and terrified to attend her first lecture at Stanford.

She found herself a seated in the second row; she had learned in undergrad that being overly eager drew unwanted attention to oneself. Hermione was going to do her year in this program right. She wasn’t going to be mocked by her peers and ignored by her professors; this wasn’t going to be like it was at Brown. Hermione was determined to change her destiny in a slew of ways and Stanford was the key.

At the stroke of ten am--when class was due to begin--the classroom door was thrown open and a tall man with long, black hair entered. He obviously had a taste for subtle drama as his loose black coat flew behind him, almost like a robe. With a _thud_ , he set his bag on the table at the front of class and pulled a black Expo marker out. On the board, he wrote out ‘ _Professor Snape_ ’ before turning and speaking to the class.

“I am your professor for Gothic Literature. I will only be address as Professor Snape or you can expect to have an appointment with me after class. If I hear any of that Dracula nonsense this year, I will automatically drop your grade an entire letter. Are we understood?” His voice carried through the class, loud and monotone.

A murmur flew through the class, heads nodding in agreement. No one wanted to lose a letter grade for something as ridiculous as an accurate, but unwelcome comparison.

“Perfect.” Hermione suddenly understood why this was his speciality. The man looked like he popped out of a Gothic novel and right into their classroom. With his hook nose and long, sleek black hair, he looked like he was one of Poe’s villains. Professor Snape had a suiting career. “Now to begin today’s lecture. I assume you all read the assigned reading.”

 

***

 

Draco wasn’t thrilled that his godfather worked at Stanford, but it was the only school on the west coast he was allowed to go to, so he took it. He also wasn’t too pleased that Severus taught the only lecture in one of the fields Draco was interested in, but life never really was on his side. His father was getting exactly what he wanted--someone to keep an eye on him. Lovely.

He couldn’t help but fight sleep as Severus’s monotone voice droned on for the better part of half an hour without a pause. He had never enjoyed how his godfather spoke. Severus had an awful habit of dragging out the vowels in words he found important for emphasis. It drove Draco mad. 

The lecture changed direction and finally peaked Draco’s interest. He sat up straighter in his seat--back row, obviously. He wasn’t a tryhard.

“Can anyone tell me what the first Gothic novel was?” Snape asked the class with unamused eyes. A hand towards the front raised as well as two others. Most of the students in class should’ve known the information, but they were all terrified of being the first victim of Professor Snape’s infamous humiliation.

“You, in the front.” He pointed to some woman with wild hair.

“The first official Gothic novel is considered to be _The Castle of Otranto_ by Horace Walpole back in 1764.” The woman paused. She spoke calmly; she was confident. Draco couldn’t help but find what she was saying as basic. Everyone knew Walpole was the first Gothic author in the literal sense. He leaned back in his chair, interest lost.

That is, until he heard the woman continue talking.

“It is only considered the first Gothic novel because Walpole used the word ‘Gothic’ to describe it, but he meant the word to describe the story as something more barbaric.” Whoever she was, she was putting the class at awe. Even if other students knew the information, they were all so terrified of Professor Snape’s reputation that they wouldn’t risk their pride in offering an answer that wasn’t exactly what he had requested. “The story itself doesn’t mark all the boxes of the Gothic genre as someone like Stoker does.”

Draco watched his godfather raise an eyebrow in interest. He knew the slight twitch of the corner of Severus’s mouth was as close to a smile as any student could get from the older man. A hush fell over the room as the other students waited for a scene to erupt.

“That’s correct. What’s your name, Miss?” Draco watched the other students in class all release a collect sigh of relief.

“Hermione Granger, sir,” the woman replied politely. “You wrote about the controversy in your first book. I found it intriguing.”

Draco didn’t know how she managed it, but the Hermione woman managed to offer her godfather a compliment without sounding like a kissass and he found himself impressed. His interest truly was piqued.

“I’d like to speak to you after class about who your thesis advisor is, Miss Granger. Now, continuing on…”

—

The rest of class passed much quicker than the first half. Draco found himself waiting for Hermione to answer more of Severus’s questions, but she never did. If he leaned over to his right far enough, he could see down to her seat. She seemed to be absorbed in taking avid notes. He wanted to hear what else she had to say. Draco had never heard of a student offering an opinion to Severus as an answer and living to tell the tale.

He knew he shouldn’t let her grab too much of his attention. She was some woman who had gotten lucky on the first day of class and survive Professor Snape’s class. She’d be famous in class, but that didn’t mean she necessarily had brains of any sort. That one moment was no guarantee that she was brilliant. Most would accept her existence at Stanford as proof enough of that, but Draco knew all too well that with enough money, an idiot could go wherever they pleased.

With the end of class, Draco purposely took his time packing up to catch a glimpse at the interaction between his godfather and the Hermione person. It was easy to linger behind when the other students all but flew out of the room in a desperate need to get as far away from their professor as quickly as possible. It was amusing to watch how skittish his peers were.

Unlike the students that had fled, Hermione packed up her bag in a neat fashion and made her way to the front of class. Draco watched as she held her head high, refusing to cower like other students had. He smirked to himself. At worst, she would be at least entertaining to watch this semester.

“You wanted to speak with me, Professor?” Hermione asked, tone even and kind. Her voice was deeper than a lot of the women he had spent time with. Draco found it pleasant. Pansy and Daphne both had high pitched voices; when they got upset, they were positively shrill. Her voice felt warm. New York didn’t raise socialites like her.

“Indeed,” Severus begun. “Every professor in the literature program is required to take on at least three students to supervisor their theses. It’s not something I take pleasure in, but last year I let the university choose whom I worked with and I ended up with a handful of idiots. I won’t be making that mistake again.” His tone was still even, but as someone who had known Severus since birth, Draco could head the slight edge in his voice that meant he was uncomfortable. His godfather hated asking for things.

“I was wondering if you had a supervisor yet for your thesis and, if not, would you like me to supervise your work?” Severus pushed his hair behind his shoulders. “It won’t be easy; I’m hard on my students. I expect only the best. As a reflection of my work, I refuse to allow any thesis under my supervision to be turned in if it’s shit.”

Without a moment of hesitation, Hermione responded. “I would be honored to have you as my supervisor,” she said quickly. She took a pause, as if to collect herself. “I wouldn’t expect any less of you. I put my all into my work and will not be turning in a disappointing thesis. I can promise you to work harder than any student you’ve had before.”

The control in her voice was obvious. She was trying her best to not be a kissass. Draco was a little impressed. He knew he got chances like hers all the time, but for someone who might not have the same luck as him, it would be instinct to kiss ass at such a moment. He finished packing his page as she spoke and buckled his authentic leather messenger bag shut.

“Try not to set your standards so high, Miss Granger,” Severus replied as he dragged out the vowels in her name. “I will be meeting with you twice a month. I expect plenty of progress at each meeting. I will email you about possible appointments and an opening I have for a research assistant. If you cannot handle the workload, I expect to be told.” With that, Draco watched his godfather pick up his bag and make an equally dramatic exit out.

Draco made his way to the stairs when he realized that Hermione must’ve been unaware of his presence in the room. Once the door had closed behind Severus, she let out an excited shout and jumped up and down, congratulating herself. Smirking, Draco waited until he reached the bottom of the stairs to interrupt her happiness.

“Congrats on finding yourself a thesis advisor on day one,” Draco drawled with a crooked smile. He had expected to startled her a little, as anyone would be. He hadn’t expected her to scream and whip around, slapping a hand over her mouth to silence her explicit fear. His smile instantly dropped off his lips. What was wrong with this woman?

“Oh shit, I didn’t mean to scary you,” he replied quickly. He held his hands out to show he was safe. Pansy had explained to him before that women get really freaked out when they are alone with a strange man (he really didn’t understand privilege; it was a work in progress). “I’m uhh not going to hurt you? This is weird. I’m in Professor Snape’s class, but I was hanging back hoping to catch him before he vanished.” Draco didn’t walk any closer. He watched her rapid breathing decrease slowly and even out. 

With one last deep breath, she let out a heavy sigh. “Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me.” She dropped her hands from her mouth and her shoulders relaxed. Then, she laughed. “Oh god, I’m sorry, I took up his time and now you didn’t get to talk to him. Are you going to ask him to be your advisor too?”

Draco wasn’t used to people being as kind as they were in California. People in New York were assholes. This Hermione woman was instantly kind to him and didn’t even know his name. He could get used to California.

“It would be a conflict of interest, actually,” he replied smoothly. “It’s no big deal that he left; I’m glad you got an advisor. He’s one hell of a Professor. It can be career changing to work with him on your thesis.”

“‘A conflict of interest’?” she repeated with curiosity. “Why would that be?” She tilted her head to the side slightly and he watched her mane of hair shift with it. She had so much hair. He wondered how she maintained the mass.

Draco shifted slightly. This place was going to be like New York all over again. She would tell everyone he was only successful in class because the professor was a family friend. It would be assumed nepotism got him an A in class, that he bought his way in, that he didn’t have to work hard to get where he was.

“It’s a secret,” Draco drawled with a wink. It was best not to get himself a bad reputation on day one.

At his wink, Hermione’s cheeks turned pink. “Oh, I didn’t mean to pry,” she replied kindly. “I hope you find an advisor that you mesh well with. Do you have any in mind?”

Draco shifted his bag on his shoulder, adjusting the weight. “I was hoping to get through my first class of each course before making up my mind. I didn’t want to make my judgments based upon online research.” He shrugged, dismissing how casual his plan was.

“I wish I could be that relaxed about this process,” she sighed and smiled at him. “When you find your advisor, if you want to discuss thesis proposals or ideas, I’m always open to working with peers.”

He took a moment to consider her offer. Typically, Draco hated peer work. It meant someone was assessing your talent, eyeing your work, trying to find a weakness. His father taught him that working alone was the safest bet. Yet, here was this smart woman that had earned his godfather’s respect, offering to work with him with a smile.

“I’d like that,” he replied with a return of his crooked smile. “Thank you for the offer.” He glanced at his watch. “I have a Latin seminar in ten minutes I have to hurry off to. It was a pleasure talking to you.” With a mood of his head, Draco made his way out of the lecture hall and across campus, mind focused on an intriguing woman with a lion’s mane.


	2. A Mocha Latte and Some Notes

Hermione felt on top of the world after her first lecture. Not only had she managed to stay relaxed and not answer every question Professor Snape asked, but she earned his respect and got a thesis advisor. She had expected her first day to be decent, not fantastic. It would’ve stayed fantastic had she not received a call from the Literature Department requesting she come to the office as soon as possible. 

She made her way to the Literature Department. Hermione assumed Professor Snape had already filled out the request form for her to be his research assistant and that she just needed to sign some papers. Her day still breezing by until she stopped at the front desk of the Literature Department and greeted the secretary. She hadn’t been expecting Hannah to greet her with a grim expression. 

“What’s going on?” Hermione asked cautiously as she approached the desk.

“Professor Dumbledore requested a meeting with you at your earliest convenience.” Hannah had a sweet voice and looked about her age. She was probably hired right out of undergrad. “He’s in his office waiting for you. It’s around the corner and on the left. His name is on the door.”

“Thanks,” Hermione murmured before turning and making her way to the Department Chair’s office. The hallway was a little too narrow, illuminated with fading, fluorescent light bulbs. No matter how beautiful a campus may be, Hermione always found the interior upper floors of buildings to be rather unsettling. 

She came to the door that had a black name plaque on it. ‘Professor Dumbledore’ was inscribed on it in gold, cursive lettering. All around his door were fliers for upcoming guest lecturers, local art festivals, and upcoming plays. It was cluttered and messy; she even saw some fliers from up to two years prior. With a shake of her head, she knocked on his office door. 

“Come in,” an older, airy voice called to her from beyond the door. Hermione entered Professor Dumbledore’s office to find an even messier scene. The bookshelves were bursting, overflowing with books and journals and loose papers that had yellowing edges. His walls were almost completely covered, if not with framed certificates and degrees, with pictures of him with people she assumed were students at events. Hermione couldn’t figure out any other reason why he would possess a photo of himself with two young adults all holding ginormous corn dogs. It was overwhelming to be in his office. She wanted to look at everything and nothing all at once. She felt a headache coming on. 

“Please sit, Miss Granger,” he requested. His voice sounded aged, matching his appearance. He took a deep breath while he paused mid-sentence. “I believe we have a matter to discuss.”

Hermione took a seat in a plush, maroon chair that she sank into. She tried to sit upright, but she continuously sank right back down. 

“I would like to discuss the request you submitted to Department the week prior,” the old professor began. He folded his thin, wrinkled hands in front of himself on his desk. “It is my understanding that you do not want the essay you used as part of your application for Stanford published in our fall alumni journal.”

Instantly, Hermione felt her stomach drop. No, she didn’t want any of her works published if it was connected to a university. He would know where she was. It was enough for her and the university to know she was brilliant, it was all she would ever have. 

“That’s correct.” Her words came out a mere whisper, barely any power behind them. She cleared her throat and repeat them, loud enough for the professor to actually hear. 

“I’m afraid my answer will disappoint you. It was part of the agreement you signed upon acceptance here that your submission be put in the journal.” Professor Dumbledore kept an even tone and eyed her with eager curiosity. “Even if it were up for discussion, the final submission for the journal has already been sent to print. I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do, Miss Granger.”

Her entire body felt cold. There was a persistent ringing in her ears as she swallowed hard. There was nothing to be done. Her name was going to be printed and published online, where he could easily find her on Google. She took a moment and sent a silent prayer that the thousands of miles of distance was enough to deter him. 

“I did want to take a moment and welcome you to our department.” Professor Dumbledore’s voice snapped her back to the present, making her paranoia settle in a dark corner of her mind. “I speak for the entire department when I say that we were quite excited to hear you chose us over Yale. It’s very rare we get students leaving the east coast to come to Stanford. I’m excited to see what you can bring to our university.”

With yet another hard swallow, Hermione put on a smile and nodded thanks. “I’m very honored to have been given a chance to study here under so many talented minds. I’ve even found a thesis advisor already; it’s been pleasant so far.”

The rest of their conversation was idle chit chat. Professor Dumbledore had already heard that Hermione would be working with Professor Snape. He offered his efforts in case she should ever need some extra assistance with her work. With a polite ‘thank you’ and a shy smile, Hermione picked her bag back up and slipped out of the professor’s chaotic office. 

—

The only real cure to mind-eating paranoia was a grande mocha latte and stress cleaning. At least, that’s what Hermione would always insist was the solution. After a brief pit stop to the Starbucks on her way home, Hermione locked herself in her flat. She locked the door knob, the deadbolt, and the chain lock she requested the landlord install before she moved in. Then—and only then—could she breathe. 

 

With a  _ thud _ , she let her bookbag drop to the floor next to the front door and took a long drink from her paper cup. Chocolate really could solve anything.

Her studio wasn’t the saddest thing she had ever seen. It had a very tiny kitchen that had a sink, a terribly small fridge, and a stained microwave. She had enough counter space for a hot plate, which she had bought right away. Next to the kitchen was the entrance to the closet-sized bathroom that held a paint-chipped bathtub with a leaky shower head, a sink that barely drained, and a toilet that shifted as you sat on it. It really was a lovely place. 

The least damaged part was the main section of the studio. She had a big window that locked tightly; it gave her a view of the community garden and she couldn’t help but adore it. The window wore blue drapes that matched the blue flannel sheets on her full size bed crammed into a corner. She had two mismatched bookshelves from GoodWill and both were partially filled with her life collection of books.

When she had packed up to leave Rhode Island, she had rented a U-haul, packed everything up she owned (that one person could move), and left that night. Hermione left behind her grandma’s old desk she had loved and her favorite bookcase. There was no way she could move it all herself, so it stayed at the apartment she had abandoned. 

Hermione set to work, unpacking the rest of her books and cleaning the parts of the apartment she hadn’t gotten to the days before. She found her little studio charming. It was rough and chipped and small, but it was the first place that was only hers. Her parents weren’t paying rent and he wasn’t sleeping in bed with her. It was small, but it was all hers and that’s what mattered. 

 

***

 

Unsurprisingly, Latin had been boring. It was hard to find a dead language interesting, especially if one was already relatively fluent in it. Draco pulled his messenger bag over his shoulder and made his way out of the lecture hall. 

The hardest part about moving across the country was that he had no friends to complain to at Stanford yet. He was so used to catching a cab over to Pansy’s and bitching about how boring a class had been or how he knew more than the professor had. Now, he just had the second best thing.

“Pansy!” Draco whined into the microphone that came with his earbuds. He dragged out her name for a purposely long period of time, attracting the attention of a few the people passing by on the walk to his apartment.

His whine was met with an exaggerated sigh and Draco knew she missed him. “What do you want, you drama queen?” Her prissy, high voice rang through his earbuds and sounded like home. Draco felt a wave of relief wash over him, head to toe.

“To talk to my favorite person in the whole world, of course,” he drawled, his voice thick with exaggerated affection. “The worst part about moving to the west coast was leaving you behind.” He laid it on thick, a stupid grin on his face.

“Cali not treating you nice enough?” Pansy teased through the phone. He could hear the smile in her voice. “You can always come crash at my place—remember that.”

“Cali is fine—I just need to make some friends.” Draco shrugged to himself. “And thanks but no thanks to that offer. Crashing on your couch means I’ll have to listen to you and Luna fuck all night and that’s not something I’ll ever desire.” 

He rolled his eyes. The two women had started dating his and Pansy’s second year at NYU. Luna was a strange, eccentric woman that he would’ve never interacted with first, but she was the light to Pansy’s dark. Pansy had had a knack for trouble since they were both in elementary school and, somehow, Luna calmed the recklessness in her. For that alone, Draco decided he could tolerate the wild blonde. 

“Any other guy would die for the chance to listen to that, but you’ve just have to take a nice thing and complain about it, don’t you?” Pansy laughed. “Is Cali at least what you wanted it to be?”

Draco stopped in front of his apartment building and looked it over. It wasn’t like the tall, steel apartment buildings he was used to towering over him in New York. There were no penthouse suites always empty from absent fathers who travel too much. His apartment building was made of wood and stone, standing only three floors tall. It was surrounded by plantlife and well-places rocks. It was a startling difference to what he was used to. 

“Yeah...yeah, I think it is, Pans.”

—

Draco would be lying if he said he didn’t purposely show up to Professor Snape’s class early in hopes of seeing Hermione again. His first attempt at conversation with the frazzled brunette had been mediocre at best; he had scared her. It wasn’t how Draco wanted the situation to go with someone that piqued his interest. He wasn’t too sure he was going to find too many exciting people at Stanford. 

The lecture hall was empty when Draco arrived. He found the seat she had been seated in the prior lecture and sat three seats to the left. Tossing his messenger bag into the empty seat next to him, he dropped casually into his newly-claimed seat. 

She wasn’t the next person to enter the hall, but the one after that. Her eyes locked onto him for just a moment and Hermione offered him an awkward, small smile before settling into her seat. Hermione busied herself with preparing herself to take notes. Draco watched he place a thin stack of papers perfectly on her small desk and line two pens and a highlighter directly to the left of them. The wild-haired woman was peculiar; her pens were parallel to her papers as well as her small stack of sticky notes. She was as neat as a New York socialite setting up for the first brunch of the year. 

“You take your notes seriously, don’t you?” Draco asked, a smirk on his thin lips. Hermione hadn’t noticed he was watched her. She snapped her attention onto him, shoulders only relaxing after a moment of staring at him. 

“Oh, umm, yeah. I do,” Hermione replied, quickly trying to recover. Someone was obviously skittish. There was a soft blush on her round cheeks. He hadn’t noticed she had freckles until then. They were painted across her nose like gold flecks. 

“I’ve never been one for taking neat notes.” He kept his tone calmer, the way he talked to Pansy on her bad days. His father might be an ass, but he had raised Draco to be a gentleman. There was no need to unsettle the woman. “I used to have to get a copy of my friend’s notes before exams. By the time I went back to look over mine, I couldn’t make out any of the information.”

It pleased him to hear her laugh a little at him. Hermione’s laugh was quiet, but it made its way to his ears. 

“What’s the point of taking notes if you can’t use them?” Her smile grew to a more comfortable size and her shoulders relaxed even more. Ten other students had joined them in the lecture hall by that point, scattered throughout the room. 

“It helps me to write the information down,” he replied with a lazy shrug. “The action of writing helps the content stay with me, I just need notes to use as a refresher.” Draco paused. “I guess I’ll have to try writing neater this time around.” He flashed her a friendly smile.

Hermione was quiet for a moment as she glanced down at her hands. He watched her rub her knuckles and worry her bottom lip. The hesitation was just for a moment, but he caught her anxiety. She looked back at him, looking at him as one might look at a foreign dog, fearful of an attack. The look in her eyes gave him chills. What had he said?

“You could borrow mine,” she offered. It sounded like a question, but Draco didn’t know how to respond. “I can make a photocopy of all of them before the exam so you can look them over. I mean, as long as you’re still doing the work and taking notes in class.” She glanced back down at her unused paper.

“I would really appreciate that,” he said quickly, before Hermione could change her mind. “I’ll take notes in class still and I’ll go over the copies you give me with a highlighter and annotate them and such.” Draco paused. “I really appreciate the offer.”

Draco tried to offer her a kind smile, but 1. he wasn’t too familiar with those and 2. Professor Snape chose that moment to make his dramatic entrance into the lecture hall. He took especially messy notes to assure he could get a copy of her neat ones—even if it was just for another excuse to talk to her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks if you're still reading! I've got a couple more chapters set aside and I'm working on more! I have to admit, getting comments is major motivation for me. I'm really happy people are enjoying it! Hope you liked the chapter and see you all again real soon!


	3. To Unwanted Children and Unanswered Phone Calls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hermione gets a phone call she has been avoiding and Draco makes his second friend at Stanford.

After class on Wednesday, Hermione found herself looking forward to Professor Snape’s next class on Monday. She made photocopies of both sets of her notes from that week, aligning them nicely in the copier. As they came out of the machine, she held them lightly in her hands. The feeling of warm, newly printed paper would always calm her nerves. The smell of fresh ink made her heart flutter just a bit, enough to cheer her up after a particularly bad set of nightmares the night before. 

She was proud of how neat her notes looked. They were written in two different colors of ink with key terms highlighted. Hermione was well aware of how talented she was with skills in the field of academia. Even back in high school, him and Harry would take pictures of her notes on their phones to use instead of wasting time writing their own. She had always been used for her smarts so others could be lazy. Hermione found it exciting that someone was trying to prove they were trying while she offered them help. 

Draco seemed like a nice enough man.

—

“Wow. I didn’t think you’d answer.”

The sound coming through the phone was the most familiar voice in the world for her. Even against her better judgement, it soothes her anxious soul and relaxed her whole body. It sounded like home and happiness and an innocent childhood. It was hard to believe it wasn’t that anymore. It hadn’t been for awhile now. 

“I didn’t mean to ignore all your calls, Harry.” Hermione let out a heavy sigh. She could already feel a headache coming on. “I’ve been busy with the move and term starting and—“

“—and all those other things you did without ever mentioning them to me first.” She could hear the hurt in his voice. It was thick and heavy and weighing her down. She took a seat at her beat-up desk (which provided the only seat in the studio) to accommodate the extra weight. 

“Harry, you know why I had to go all of a sudden. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, that truly wasn’t my intention but—“

“You did hurt my feelings, ‘Mione!” His voice went right over hers again, effectively silencing her. When did she start letting people interrupt her? When did she lose so much of herself? Wasn’t she once a confident, proud woman? She missed the person that she was a ghost of. “I get that you and Ron didn't work or whatever, but you didn’t even tell me where you moved!”

Hermione flinched at the volume of his voice. It was clear then that there was no reasoning with Harry that night. She would try again a different time, maybe when the wound she caused by moving wasn’t so fresh, but that time wasn’t then. She listened to him vent to her about his hurt feelings and how he was worried for her when he couldn’t find her location any longer on Find My Friends or SnapChat. Hermione let him get out all the shit he was feeling that—quite frankly—wasn’t important in the big picture as long as he still always put Ron first. 

“Harry, it’s sort of late and I have a ton of reading to still do before Monday. I’ve gotta get going.” She tried to sound guilty, but it wasn’t authentic. Hermione only had so much faking left in her.

“Could you at least text him sometime, ‘Mione?” Harry pleaded with her. Hermione’s entire body tensed. Her lungs stopped working. It felt like all of the life in her was being vacuumed out through the mouthpiece of the phone.. “He totally flipped when you were just  _ gone _ . You scared the shit out of him. He deserves an apology.”

“Gotta go, Harry,” was all she managed to mumble into the phone before ending the call. She let her phone clatter to the floor, a dull echo filling the studio. 

—

The weekend passed slowly. Hermione left her phone turned off. She knew she shouldn’t have given Ginny her new number, but in a moment of nostalgia she had. Harry was blowing up her phone and it was only a matter of time before he had her number again too. Then the late night calls would start, the drunk texts, the very-real threats. 3,119 miles separated her from him. It didn’t feel like enough space. 

Like all things do, the weekend eventually did pass. Hermione didn’t leave her apartment once. She was completely caught up on all her assigned reading and even started on her thesis proposal. This week would mark the start of her working as a research assistant for Professor Snape, which meant she would be spending a great amount of time in the university’s library. Hermione was excited, both to have required time in a library and to keep her mind busy. 

When she entered the lecture hall on Monday, the man named Draco was seated two seats over from her unassigned seat. His bag took up the seat that would be between them. He had obviously beat her there by a good chunk of time seeing as he was thumbing his way through a well-loved copy of  _ Anna Karenina _ , lost in thought. 

She paused right inside the doorway of the lecture hall. Hermione hadn’t taken the time to notice before—probably since all their interactions began with him startling her—but Draco was a handsome man. In a rather suiting manner, he looked like he could be a love interest in a Gothic novel. His skin was pale in a radiant way; if he didn’t have his glow, she would be concerned he was sickly. His blonde hair was equally as pale, all but white and swept back neatly. A few strands fell out of place, brushing his forehead. Hermione couldn’t remember his eye color or his height—she hadn’t paid him much attention during their previous encounters. 

After a deep breath and a nod to herself, she set off to her seat. Draco looked up as she settled into her seat. With a smile to herself, Hermione pulled a folder out of her bookbag and removed two copies of her pristine notes. She finally looked in his direction again as she held them out to him. Draco met her with an appreciative smile and took the papers without wrinkling them. He looked them over for a moment.

(Note to self: his eyes were gray.) 

“You really do take neat notes,” he conceded. Hermione felt her cheeks warm. “I’ve never seen anyone be this organized.” Draco’s eyes scanned the sheets of paper quickly. She waited for comments about being a try-hard to come, but they never did. 

“I’ve always taken pride in my school work,” she replied with a dismissive shrug. “I can keep making you copies after each lecture, if you’d like.”

Hermione was used to people feeling they had a right to use her and her work. It was startling to see the blonde give her a small smile and nod. “I’d like that.” His tone was polite and pleased. When did she forget people could be kind?

“As long as you still take notes in class,” she reminded him quickly. Hermione felt like she had to poke the fire, see if his kindness was truly too good to be true. She wanted his facade to crumble and fall.

“Of course,” Draco responded smoothly. “I make a mean study partner. If you want, we can study together so you can witness I’m carrying my weight with your own eyes.” Draco raised his eyebrows at her, the ball was in her court. 

She didn’t answer right away. Studying with someone meant she wouldn’t be isolated, which was her goal. Hermione came to Stanford to be away from everyone, to be safe and holed away in her little studio. This would be one step away from that. 

“You’ve got a deal, blondie,” she quipped. 

 

***

 

“Can you remind me why I’m here?” Draco drawled. He sat sprawled out with the aristocratic arrogance that came naturally to him in one of the two armchairs across from Severus’s office desk. They were made with leather and horribly uncomfortable. It was as if his godfather was trying to ensure no one stayed in his office too long (which he knew was exactly why he bought the damned furniture). 

Severus’s office was toward the center of the Lit building and had no windows; the only source of light were dim, fluorescent bulbs overhead. It was stuffy and designed to be purposely unwelcoming. The man had a damn lifelike skull on his desk for decoration. Draco happened to know his father got it for Severus as a gift when he got the job at Stanford, but Draco was certain it scared plenty of students over the years. 

“Your father asked me to look after you during your time here.” Even out of the lecture hall, Severus’s tone was low and bored. He dragged out his vowels just a fraction of a second longer than the average human and it drove Draco mad. “I wanted to touch base and see how you first week had gone.”

Here it went. His father’s never-ending snooping into his life continued, even though he had moved thousands of miles away. Still, he preferred Severus asking questions to some of his father’s other, less polite friends. “It went well,” Draco replied with practiced manners. “My Latin class is too easy, I’m enjoying my Russian lit lecture, and your class isn’t as awful as I thought it would be.”

The corner of Severus’s mouth twitched and Draco knew he had almost made the man smile. He was annoyed by his father’s prying, but he liked his godfather to an extent. “Well I’m glad my class isn’t a nuisance to your uneducated brain,” Severus drawled. “Have you found a thesis advisor yet?”

With a sigh, Draco made an attempt to get comfortable in the armchair. “I have an appointment with Professor Binns tomorrow to discuss him being the advisor on my thesis about  _ Anna Karenina _ .” 

Severus assessed him for a moment before giving him a curt nod. “That will be a fitting advisor for such a thesis. If you need any help or access to additional resources, feel free to send me an email. Do not waste my time, though, Draco. I take assisting your father and you very seriously; you’re my godson. I’d prefer if you didn’t see this as my simply my loyalty to your father.”  With that, Severus turned his attention to the stack of papers on his desk and Draco knew he had been dismissed. 

It was easy to forget that his godfather cared for him outside of the simple reason that his father demanded him to.

—

Draco had managed to make one friend (besides the woman with the wild hair) and his name was Blaise. He was an absolute show off in their Italian Lit course. Blaise was the only student as proficient as Draco with the language, so when the man asked him if he wanted to get coffee and discuss class together, Draco agreed. 

“Where did you learn Italian?” Blaise’s voice was deeper than Draco’s. His skin was dark and even, without a blemish. The man obviously cared about his own hygiene and presentation. Draco could tell his shoes were authentic leather and his watch was expensive, much like his own. He was a well put together man. A man his father would push him to be friends with.

“I started learning it in high school,” Draco explained after taking a sip of his low-fat cappuccino. “My family summered in France often and from there we often took trips to Italy. It made sense to learn Italian then. I stuck with it all through undergrad at NYU and now I’m here. What about you?”

“My mother is Italian,” he replied simply. Blaise moved his wooden stir stick once around the ceramic mug that held his matcha latte with foam. “I was speaking Italian before I knew English. We went back to Italy any chance we got. Mother stayed there while I was away at boarding school.” Blaise shrugged casually and Draco realized that he understood the man sitting across from him. Another boy raised by a parent too busy with their own life to focus on their child. Boarding school, long distance love from the start of childhood. 

Draco nodded once, a small movement. “You went to boarding school as well?” His question wasn’t meant to be answered. “Fun stuff, shipped off so our parents could pretend to be childless most the year.”

To that, Blaise raised his mug, a sarcastic smirk on his lips. “To our parents.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to post this! I've had it ready, but I've been drowning in school work! I graduate this weekend from college and then I'm free! Shout out to Seb--thanks for reading this over for me!


	4. Chocolate Eyes and Broken Mugs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have more chapters coming! I graduated college this past month and I've been so busy I haven't had time to post. Thank you for being patient!
> 
> A warning on the following chapters: all use of anxiety and PTSD comes from my personal exposure, life experiences, and a little research. If this is not how you experience these, that doesn't make you less valid or the way I am writing them any less valid either. I hope you are able to enjoy this!

Draco compiled a list of assumptions—of expectations really—about each person he met. These were drawn rather quickly and were almost always incredibly accurate. Draco felt he was talented at reading people; it was a skill his mother had taught him. How could you know who in the room was the most important person to sell yourself to if you could not pick them out? Like the proper socialite she was, Narcissa Malfoy had taught Draco very early on how to read a room, how to read people. He could tell which guests had money and which didn’t, what people were self conscious about, what made them agitated, what they wanted most. It was easy to piece together. Humans were all very alike when you broke them down to their core. 

Or, at least, Draco had found them all that boring and simple until that Thursday afternoon. He found himself seated across from Hermione, the woman who had now made several brilliant remarks in class and had been  _ almost praised _ by Severus. Draco had expected Hermione to have a nice top layer of education; he expected her to have the skill set to reiterate ideas she read about and got a nice pat on the back for it. That was still more than he could hope for in most peers. Once they had started interacting, she shut down those ideas quickly. Draco hadn’t met another person like her before.

Hermione Granger was actually brilliant—like himself. She created stunning, inquisitive thoughts and enjoyed discussing them over caffeinated beverages. She didn’t sip that weird “iced coffee” shit, but drank a hot mug of mocha even though it was warm outside the coffee shop they were in. Hermione asked him about the literature they were reading in Severus’s class, never diving deep with personal questions, which he preferred for the time being. He had no clue where she went for undergrad or if her parents had money, but he knew she had an IQ that made him shudder with glee.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she added quickly with a hesitant look, “I do enjoy Poe, but I feel like covering him in the masters program is a joke. He’s ingenious—we all know that—but we’ve all been learning about him since middle school and there’s simply nothing left for me to analyze in  _ The Tell-Tale Heart _ .”

Draco felt her watch him as she took a long sip of her basically-hot-chocolate-with-coffee. “I’m not saying your wrong.” He leaned back in his chair and appraised her. “I’m just saying that there’s no harm rereading one of his works in a place of higher education to see if we can still extract more from it.”

Hermione rolled her chocolate eyes at him. “If you have anything left to extract from Poe, you shouldn’t be in an advanced lit comparison program, blondie,” she quipped. He got lucky and caught sight of a playful smile on her lips. Had he really not see her smile often in the handful of interactions they had hosted?

“You better watch that sass,” Draco laughed. Simultaneously, he reached for his mug and everything went crashing to Hell, literally. 

Hermione was a yard away from the small table they had resided at, breathing heavily. Her eyes were wide like a wild animal, fear encompassing her. The mug she had been nursing was on the tile floor, shattered apart. Her drink had splattered onto both of their shoes and the bottoms of their pants as well as reaching a few feet out in all directions. The entire coffee house was quiet as everyone stared at Hermione as she stood, shaking, eyes locked on the table she had just been comfortably seated at. 

Something that sounded close to “I’ve got to go,” was mumbled by the woman with the even messier than usual mane as she grabbed her bag and sprinted out the door. 

Not knowing what to do, Draco sat in silence at his table. He sat long enough that the other customers returned their attentions to themselves and a barista come to clean up the mess. He insisted on paying for the broken mug and left a tip in the jar on the counter for the staff before leaving as well.

 

***

 

Hermione only stopped running when the coffee shop was out of sight. She was just a few blocks away from her studio when she slowed her pace to a walk, desperately trying to catch her breath. Sweat made her shirt and hair stick to her, beadlets racing down the side of her face. 

“I didn’t mean to,” left her lips on repeat, a quiet prayer to a god she stopped believing in years ago.

With white knuckles, Hermione held on tightly to her bag and focused on each step she took towards her studio. 114 steps from where she had stopped running to the front door of her apartment building and another 12 to the front door of her studio. Only once she was inside with all the locks locked did Hermione release her grip on her bag, letting it slide off her shoulders to the floor. 

Without stopping, Hermione slowly made her way to her bed. The short walk consisted of her discarding of all the things she didn’t need on her: her shoes, jeans, and bra. When she made it to her bed, Hermione simply tumbled into it and fell unconscious, exhausted. 

—

Her phone said it was 10:07 pm when she woke up. The only good thing Hermione had ever known to come from anxiety attacks were the naps that followed suit. That was when she slept the hardest—nightmare free—for hours. Much to Hermione’s disappointment, it was still Thursday and the coffee shop incident hadn’t been a dream gone awry. 

Hermione let out a frustrated sigh and rolled onto her stomach. She swiped through her notifications on her phone. Of course there were no texts from Draco asking if she was a freak because she hadn’t given him her number. No one in Stanford had her phone number outside of administration. All the notifications she had were emails from the school about upcoming lectures and a single email from Professor Snape with his research list. 

She heavily considered not going to class Friday. Maybe she could email Professor Snape and fake sick. Her thesis could really use the extra time. She got as far as opening up an email address to the professor before Hermione put her phone back down. No, she would go to class and face Draco. Chances were he wouldn't even be sitting near her anymore. Who willingly sat next to a freak anyways?

“I hate everything,” Hermione mumbled to herself. She got out of bed and warmed up some leftover Thai food from two nights ago for dinner.

—

Hermione may or may not have purposely gotten to Snape’s class later than usual; she walked in 3 minutes before class instead of her usual 15. Her unassigned-assigned seat was empty (thank God, she couldn’t handle anymore tragedies that week), but next to it wasn’t. In the seat next to hers was Draco’s bag and in the seat next to that was the man himself, absorbed in a book. Powered by a deep breath, Hermione set forward and made her way to her seat. In her peripherals, she could see Draco turn his attention from his book to her as she settled into her seat. 

“Hello.” His voice was just...normal. There was no laughter, no mockery, no fear or judgement. “Thought you might have caught that flu going around or something—you’re later than usual.”

As illogical as it was, it made her frustrated that Draco wasn’t mocking her. Hermione was accustomed to rudeness, to being shredded apart. To have Draco alloing her to nurse whatever was left of her dignity was jarring. She simply didn’t know how to handle it anymore. 

“No flu here,” Hermione decided to mumble in response. She pulled her note taking tools out and busied herself with them. 

“Did you want to get coffee again this weekend and discuss essay topics for the paper that’s Snape has us turning in next Friday?”

Draco’s voice was even and steady, the opposite of how she felt. He was doing her the respect of pretending her outburst had never happened. There were no questions—not even hidden in those silver eyes—and no quirked eyebrows. If she hadn’t been there herself, Hermione wouldn’t have remembered it hadn’t all just been another one of her nightmares. 

With a shaky sigh, Hermione nodded even though every ounce of her body was telling her to run again. To sprint out the double doors of the classroom, to pack up her apartment and move to a different city and not talk to anyone this time around. Talking to people, making friends, that’s what got you fucked over.

“I brought the notes from the last session a-and copies of my annotations for the reading due today.” Hermione hated that her voice shook as she spoke; she calmed herself and did her best to hold herself together. It helped when Draco met her and her notes with a pleasant smile. He slowly took the notes from her, obviously trying not to startle her, and glanced at the sheets. 

“Jesus Christ, you really are thorough.” With a friendly smile, he tucked the notes into his binder. 


End file.
